


Just the Right Bullets

by KellerProcess



Series: Fire Meet Gasoline [3]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Blowjobs, Bondage, Death Threats, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Pistol-Whipping, Rape Play, Russian Roulette, Verbal Abuse, basically these are two nasty people who don't know what risk aware consensual kink is, dubcon, fatphobic language, or is that the giggityhorse?, sex in the gigahorse, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe and the Bullet Farmer have a cute date in the Gigahorse (note: their definitions of “cute” and “date” are entirely fucked up and potentially lethal).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Gigahorse roared like a lion as its driver crested the dune at a clip. For a few graceful moments, the vehicle’s speed kicked it into the morning air before all four tires slammed back into the sand, barely jolting the two sole occupants inside the lower of its double Cadillac cabins. The fearsome visage of Immortan Joe’s respirator mask hid the workings of his mouth, but the corners of his eyes squinted in a way that indicated a smile.

“She handled that crest beautifully,” Kalashnikov, the Bullet Farmer, observed from the seat next to him. “I hardly felt a jolt.”

“Hmm,” Joe agreed as he spun the wheel, sending the car fishtailing through the sand.

Grunting, Kalashnikov twisted and jammed himself against the door and the dashboard with his elbows. “Fuk-ushima, Moore! Warn a man next time before you try to flip the goddamn thing. Especially since you never add seatbelts for some fuku-damned reason.”

Joe didn’t answer as he steered into each curve. In seconds, he had brought the vehicle back to heel.

“A little slower than I’d have liked,” he observed. “But acceptable.”

Nodding, Kalashnikov swiveled back around and pulled the notepad and stubby pencil from a pocket in one of his many empty artillery belts. As he scribbled down _check steering_ , he tried not to listen for the clank of bullets around his waist and chest; tried not to anticipate their familiar weight in the bandoliers sewn into his sleeves and trousers. Most of all, though, he missed the twin Colt New Frontiers normally nestled in the holsters at his shoulders. Why the hell had he agreed to go on this little joyride completely unarmed again?

Fuk-ushima. It was like being naked. Worse than being naked.

“Kalashnikov?”

Unable to suppress one final touch to his empty right-hand holster, Kalashnikov looked across the seat at Joe and realized the car had come to a stop. As the great engine pinged beneath them, he swallowed.

“Moore? What’s the holdup? We’ve got to be in Gas Town by first light or we’ll never hear the end of it. You know how His Majesty gets when schedules aren’t kept.”  
“We’ve got a good hour before then,” Moore rumbled. “And fuck his timetable. The new tower’s construction will start when the Immortan says it will, not when his ledger does.”

“Heh,” Kalashnikov barked out a laugh. “One of these days, you really ought to let me shoot him. He could feed half your army for a week if I did. Poetic justice, you know.”  
Moore returned the chuckle. “If he ever says the word _units_ again”—here he mimicked the People Eater’s whine—“I may just give you my blessing.”

Kalashnikov’s fingers were back to fidgeting again, this time in search of his bandoliers. He forced them to tuck the pad and pencil away instead. “Seriously, though, why have we stopped? Shocks, breaks, engine, everything seems fine, and even if there was a problem, you’ve sent everyone else on ahead, so there’s no fixing it until we go back to the Citadel. And a lot of faith you have in those testosterone-fueled tinkerers of yours, I might add, not to keep at least one mechanic on board with us.”  
This time when his fingers hunted for his missing bandoliers, Joe reached across the cabin and stopped his hand.

“Twitchy without your weapons, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight I am,” he grumbled, wrenching his hand away. “Buzzards prowling the dunes, Thanatos’s gang trying to encroach on our territory. Why I let you talk me into this—”  
The hand returned, this time in the form of a thick finger pressed against his lips. “Shh,” Joe soothed as he rustled the pad through ridges of chapped skin. 

“I will not shush, you—”

“Remember all those years ago, when we dragged you out of that fortress in Toowomba?”

“I seem to recall that I agreed to come with you after you failed to invade it, but, you know, semantics.”

“Six to one.” Joe shrugged. “You told me you might as well have been naked without at least four firearms on your body.”

“Yes. And…?”

Joe chuckled again, circling Kalashnikov’s lips with a thumb now. The seat juddered and squeaked slightly as he slid his bulk across it. “You know, for a man that can kill two at the same time while blindfolded and drop half a dozen more before the smoke clears, you really are naïve sometimes.”

Kalashnikov swallowed again. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice from wavering. It felt like sand in his throat, hot after a battle and filled with blood.

“It means,” Joe’s voice dropped to a whisper as he slid his hand from Kalashnikov’s lips and on down the angles of jaw, throat, and shoulder, “we’re alone in the Wasteland, you’re completely defenseless, and no one will come to your aid, should I decide…” His fingers ghosted down Kalashnikov’s stomach and cupped the organ he typically kept shielded. “…to have my way with you.”

“M-moore.” Another swallow as Kalashnikov pushed his hand away again. “Come on. We’ve got a project to oversee, and I really don’t think—”

Joe’s lips crushed against his own and didn’t let up, even when Kalashnikov turned and elbowed him in the chest.

“Stop resisting,” Joe growled as he grabbed for Kalashnikov’s knees to throw them wide.

“Do you think I’m kidding?” he snapped as he shoved Joe’s hands away again. “Fuk-ushima, Joe! What the hell’s gotten into you? This isn’t fucking around in the Wasteland anymore with more semen to spill than sense! You’ve got a family now—”

“A twelve-year-old who’s killed both his guards and a mother that’s too afraid to even hug him because of it—and who blames me for him.” Kalashnikov could practically taste the anger in Joe’s tone. It burned like paprika and chili powder—or at least the memory of them.

“She blames me for everything.” And now his voice was pure ash and bitteroot.

“So get another wife! Shoot the boy in the head. Don’t—I said no!”

Joe slapped him hard enough to turn his head, hard enough that his neck complained. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” he said as he clambered up onto his knees and thrust Kalashnikov’s thighs apart. “I own this entire territory and all the people in it. Including you. Or have you forgotten why you wear my symbol on your armor here?”  
Kalashnikov grunted as Joe closed his hand around his cock and squeezed. Pain zapped through his thighs and into his stomach along with a traitorous jolt of pleasure.  
“I said no, goddamn it!” Kalashnikov kicked out with a boot, wishing he’d at least insisted on weighing them down with bullets. Moore blocked it with a heavy sweep of his left hand and punched him in the jaw this time.

The pain dazzled him just long enough for Moore to whip his Frontiersman out of his holster and jamb it against Kalashnikov’s temple.  
“Now,” he growled, his clear blue gaze darting down to Kalashnikov’s bobbing Adam’s apple. “Are you going to take those fatigues off so we can do this the right way, or are you going to make me strip y—uuungh!”

Moore jerked back from the kick Kalashnikov had just delivered to his plastic armor. That was all the time Kalashnikov needed to wrest the gun away from him and whip the butt against the back of his skull. In two cracks, Moore listed back, eyes blown wide with shock. His respirator hissed and slurred wetly, as though he was attempting to say something.  
“You whore!” he rasped.

One more crack of the pistol and he slumped sideways against the dashboard, moaning thickly. “Nhhgh.”

After taking a few breaths to still his heartbeat, Kalashnikov nudged Joe’s shin with the toe of his boot as he worked to open the buckle of his own holsterless belt. When Moore grunted dimly and raised a hand to touch the back of his head, Kalashnikov sprung across the space and grabbed his wrists.

“K…,” Moore crackled out as Kalashnikov looped his hands to the steering wheel and buckled them in place, leaving Joe mostly sprawled on his back. A pause, another breath, and Kalashnikov clambered on top of him. The cab’s ceiling was high enough and the seat wide enough to permit him, with a few adjustments, to straddle Moore’s legs and lean forward to brace his forearms against the broad chest beneath him. With satisfaction he noted that his kick had dented Joe’s ridiculous vacuum-plastic chest armor, crumpling the painted-on muscles in like the skin of a rotting peach.

“If you think I’m helpless without a weapon,” he whispered, “then you’ve forgotten that’s also when I’m the most dangerous.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics Kalashnikov sings/quotes here come from the song "The Crossroads" by Tom Waits and come from the soundtrack of The Black Rider, a musical Waits wrote with William Burroughs. It's based on a German folktale involving a young man whom the devil gives seven magic bullets--with tragic results. In many ways, Joe and Kalashnikov feel like Tom Waits songs given sentience, I think.

Good job that Moore had a thick skull in both senses of the word. Back before they’d taken the Citadel, he’d survived blows to the head that had dropped other men under his command.

That didn’t mean that he woke up any faster when he got them, though. Not even when Kalashnikov reached over and disconnected the tubes from his air bag, lifted off the skeletal mask, and chucked the whole damn kit and caboodle back through the hole that lead into the extended cabin. Fuk-ushima, it didn’t make Moore look impressive or intimidating, it made him look like a goddamn comic book villain—and it sure as hell wasn’t helping his face. The full lips beneath were chapped and dotted with sores.

Kalashnikov sniffed. “Clean air only,” he huffed. “Ridiculous.”

As if anything was clean anymore. Or that starving your skin from sunlight would automatically make it so. Briefly, he considered tossing the damn thing out the window and backing over it. 

As he waited for Moore to come to, Kalashnikov twirled the cylinder of the Colt, admiring its curves, the its metallic whirr, the long, silver lines of barrel, trigger, and butt. Joe kept his weapons in exceptional condition—just like a military man should. Almost as good as he treated his own lovelies. 

“Sorry I had to do that to you, pretty,” he soothed, sliding his fingers through the blood spatters on the Frontiersman’s handle. A few drops had leaped up into the filigree on the hammer and cylinder. He lowered his head reverently and licked them both clean. Joe’s blood was pennies and sand and salt and power. Like licking a bullet—or maybe gasoline straight from an engine. He could taste exactly how Moore held it in that large, firm palm. The way his finger curled around the trigger. 

When paired with his weaponry, the taste was—heh—divine.

“I’ll give you a nice, good polishing later to make up for it,” he promised before gliding his tongue up the barrel. “Mhh, wish I had some time to…”

A groan from Moore made him jerk his tongue away and look down at the man he was straddling. Sighing, Kalashnikov leaned forward. “First things first,” he muttered as he forced one red-rimmed eye open with his thumb and index finger. Joe grunted in disapproval as he repeated the process on the other. 

“Doesn’t look like you have a concussion,” he observed. “We can thank that hard head of yours. Still, you’ll need one of your organics to look it over when you get back. That is,” he drawled as he trailed the tip of the Colt around Joe’s lips, “if I let you go back.”

“Kalashnikov?”

“Don’t wear it out.”

Moore grunted as Kalashnikov released his face. “The hell is going on? What did you do?”

“Well, funny you should ask that.” Kalashnikov inched up Joe’s thighs until he could box his hips in with his knees. The hard-and-soft pushback of fat and muscle made for a good seat—and his sitting there pissed Moore of, if that little scowl meant anything. “If you misuse a loaded weapon, Colonel, you shouldn’t be surprised if it shoots you in the face. And given who you’re dealing with here, there isn’t a lot of difference.”

He spun the Colt’s barrel and pressed it against Joe’s temple.

“You should know that, of course. I’m the best killing machine in your army.”

Moore’s blue eyes came fully open now, as if the lids had been raised by strings. They turned to look into Kalashnikov’s face, then strained upward into whiteness in an attempt to see the gun pressed against the forehead above them.

“Kalashnikov.” Moore’s throat worked in a swallow. “All right. You’ve made your point. Now let me up.”

Shaking his head, Kalashnikov zipped back the trigger. Joe froze at the click and flicked his gaze forward, eyes blowing wide.

“Goddamn it, Major! Stop fucking around! Th-that’s an order!” 

And oh, wasn’t that nice?

“An order.” Kalashnikov snorted. “Listen to you. You’re bound to the wheel of this—”He waved the gun around as if searching for the rest of the sentence.—“I’m sorry. I can’t think of a kinder word for ‘one billion horsepower midlife crisis.’ I’ve just hit you in the head three times. And I’m currently pointing a loaded pistol at your skull.”  
He snapped the trigger again for emphasis, and Joe flinched.

“I really wouldn’t be giving me any orders now, if I were you. Just a suggestion. After what you just tried to do, I’m not _really_ in the mood for them.”  
Joe’s pale throat worked in a swallow. Little beads of sweat that had nothing to do with the slowly rising heat of the inky predawn now dotted his face. Kalashnikov leaned in and flicked his tongue along the sweep of Moore’s Cupid’s bow.

“Mhh. Terror. _Yummy._ ”

“I’m not—” Joe tugged against the belt, attempting to buck Kalashnikov away at the same time. “I’m through playing games, Kalash—”

“Rude.” Kalashnikov tutted as he tapped Moore’s forehead with the barrel. “If you break that belt, Moore, I’ll end this right now. Be a good boy, and you might just survive.”

“I said I’m th—”

This time, Kalashnikov slapped him across the jaw with the Colt’s butt. “Tsk. Really. Immortan this. Immortan that. All this god-king business has gone to your head—both of them.” He shifted forward until Moore’s studded codpiece slotted beneath his balls. “Made you believe your own press,” he continued. “Hm.” He rocked himself again, enjoying the scrape of the castle nuts through the thick fabric.

“Kal…”

A longsuffering sigh. “Okay, big fella. I’m going to make this all very simple. You’ve got a lovely weapon here. Real Single Action Army. Cross pin frame. Filigree all over. And six chambers. Now, we all know we economicalness is next to Joelyness, so I’ve taken the liberty of removing five of those bullets. Can you tell the class how many that leaves, Colonel?”

It was hard to tell beneath that chalk dust or pumice or whatever the hell Joe dusted himself with these days, but Moore looked just a little paler in his estimation. And when he spoke, his voice was higher, and a little breathless; small, unlike the pupils now eating up those freshwater lakes he had for irises.

“Please. Stop.”

“Saying please now?” Kalashnikov asked, enjoying the press of the castle nuts points as he spun the barrel. Yeah, his dick was definitely taking interest.

“That’s right.”

“Mhm.” He rocked across Joe’s codpiece again as he took another spin. And then he struck like an anaconda, face inches from Moore’s, spit flying into his hair. “Well too damn bad! Where was my _please_ when you were pawing me like a date on prom night, huh? You fucking piece of shit.”

Joe gasped as Kalashnikov jammed the barrel of the gun against his temple again. The trigger clicked a third time.

“Fuk-ushima, Joe,” Kalashnikov’s voice was all honey and softness as he craned his neck up far enough to look into Moore’s face again. “You’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever met. Three shots in, and so far we haven’t found the bullet! How about that? It’s a goddamned miracle, ain’t it?” He paused, sucked the corner of his lip into his mouth in thought. “Hm. Or should that be a Joe-damned miracle? Then again, you’re not gonna be Immortan for too much longer, are you?” He spun the cylinder again. And again when it stopped.

“Kalashnikov, I’m sorry. Can’t we talk—”

This time, Kalashnikov jammed the barrel against his chin before firing. “Oh, no, no, no. Talking time’s over, Moore. Damn, luckier and luckier! Only two shots left.” He dragged the barrel up Moore’s cheek and across his full lips, making sure to prod a few sores along the way. “You ever hear the story of the casting of the magic bullets? Nah, don’t bother to answer. We both know you’re an illiterate motherfucker. Usually, a bullet hits whatever target you aim it at, but a few of them, well, how does the old story go?” He cleared his throat as the words came to him. “‘Now a man figures it’s his bullets, so it will hit what he wants to hit. But it don’t always work that way. You see, some bullets is special, for a single aim. A certain stag, or a certain person, and no matter where you are, that’s where the bullet will end up.’”

He spun the barrel again. 

“‘And in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser’s wand and points where the bullet wants to go.’”

Another spin.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, sometimes I miss a good story, don’t you? But is it a fairy tale? A bit of religion? Eh, who can say? But there’s a certain kind of justice in that idea, don’t you think?”

Another spin. Moore’s eyes kept flicking from his to the barrel. “K…” The rest of the name seemed to stick in his throat.

Kalashnikov licked his lips and rocked against Moore’s groin again. “Whaddya say, Colonel? Think this one’s gonna be your magic bullet?”

His cock hardened further as he squeezed the trigger back slowly.

“Huh. Guess not,” he said, pulling the gun away and frowning down the barrel. “Maybe he just likes you. The way you hold him, run your finger over his trigger. Bet you’ve given him so much pleasure, popping as many people as you have.” He twirled his tongue across the hole, lowering his eyelids as he savored the taste of metal and the hint of smoke. “Can’t say I blame him, you know. He and I are both gonna sing when we sink this bullet into your skull.” He cupped himself over his trousers, grinding his palm against his hardness. “Mhh, can’t wait to bust this nut right in that wound, either.”

“You’ve lost your goddamned mind!” Joe was practically shrieking now.

Kalashnikov gave him a thumbs-up. “You must have just the right bullets,” he sang, “and the first one’s always free…”

The trigger clicked a fifth time.

“Please,” Joe whimpered, and fuk-ushima, if that wasn’t the sexiest damn thing he’d ever heard.

“Please what, Joe?”

“Please...please don’t…”

“Hmm…” Kalashnikov scratched at the stubble on his chin, pretending to think it through. “I dunno. Your Colt’s feeling awful frisky right now. All this lead up and you won’t let him shoot his load? That hardly seems fair. Still…” He circled the barrel around Joe’s shaking lips. “Suck him off, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”

With wide blue eyes focused upward, staring into his own, Moore snapped his tongue out like a lizard, barely grazing the barrel.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Kalashnikov chuckled. “You gotta do better than that, old man. Get him in the mood first. Go on. Give him a little kiss now.” 

Moore hesitantly brushed his lips across the barrel. His second attempt had a little more passion after Kalashnikov shot him a sour look.

“Mhh, good boy. He’s nice and hard for you now. Go on and open wide. Do it!” he screamed when Moore hesitated for just a second. “Do it, you son of a bitch, or so help me I’ll blow your head off right now!”

Moore’s shaking lips closed around the barrel.

“Don’t just sit there,” Kalashnikov snarled, slapping him across the cheek. “You’re not a blushing virgin. You’ve had your dick in enough mouths to know what to do with one. Suck it.”

Trembling, Joe moved his head back and forth along the barrel, fellating it.

“Fuck me,” Kalashnikov hissed, squeezing his groin again. “Fuck, that’s the fucking hottest thing. Suck it, you lying old piece of shit. Fuck him nice and good for me.”

Grunting, Moore sped up his movements as his cheeks caved in. The barrel twitched in Kalashnikov’s hand as Joe tongued it, sucked it, took it down his throat.  
“Fuk-ushima…” Kalashnikov thrust his hand past his waistband and palmed himself as he ground his perineum against Joe’s codpiece. In just a few pulls, the friction from his hand and from the studded points of the hardware had his toes curling back, his balls pulling up against him.

“Yeah,” he moaned. “Fucking beautiful.” And when Joe had sucked on the barrel a few more times, he pulled his hand back, relishing the thick, wet pop as the gun slid from Joe’s lips.

Joe was panting, his hairline drenched with sweat. Lines of sweat had also eroded his powder, revealing cracks of flushed skin. 

“Well?” he panted. “Did I…?”

“Hm? Please him?” Kalashnikov asked as he continued to stroke his length. “Yeah, big guy. You did a helluva job.”

Moore sighed in relief as his lips pulled into a tremulous smile. “So you won’t do it, then?”

Kalashnikov chuckled and shoved the barrel back through those shaking lips with enough force to crack a tooth. “Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, huh? Presumptuous little fucker, aren’t you?”

Joe tried to scream as he eased the trigger back.

“Bang-bang,” Kalashnikov whispered.

He came as he fired.


	3. Chapter 3

Joe cracked open one eye, then the other. Blinked. Blinked again. Almost as though he was surprised his brain meat was still thinking inside his skull instead of being splattered across the cab.

Kalashnikov smirked down at him and slowly pulled the barrel from his mouth. After wiping the poor Colt off on his shirt, he set him on the dashboard. He needed cleaning and some nice, sensual caresses to make up for what Kalashnikov had just put him through, but that could wait. With a soft sigh of pleasure, Kalashnikov spread himself out on top of Moore and carded his hand back and forth though Joe’s graying, sweat-damp hair. The best thing about Moore, he decided, was definitely being able to lie on top of a mountain of a man after you’d had a good, hard fuck. Or mindfuck. Either/or.

One of the best things, anyway. If he ever started making a list, he’d be hard-pressed to end it. 

“Well?” he purred. “Everything you had in mind?”

Joe continued to stare up at him, silent, his chapped lips pursed. Kalashnikov was happy to note that he still hadn’t caught his breath. “Fuk-ushima, Moore. You’re shaking like schoolboy. That good, huh?”

Joe’s lips twitched up, then pulled into a frown.

“What?” Kalashnikov’s own lips followed the movement. “Oh, don’t tell me. You changed your mind and didn’t let me know. Wanted me to use the Beretta instead? Or the Frontiersman? If you’re gonna bitch about how hit you too damn hard…”

Joe’s belly lurched into a snort, which became a chuckle.

Kalashnikov shot him a glare, which only turned the juddering into an earthquake and Joe’s snorts into a long, sustained rumble that erupted into a howl of laughter.

“Hell’s sake, if you want to insult a man after sex, just knee him in the nuts already. That’d be kinder.”

“No, n-no,” Joe snickered, then howled again as Kalashnikov bared his teeth in a scowl. “No, it was…it’s j-just…”

“ _Well?_ ”

“‘Bang-bang’?”

Kalashnikov’s eyes rolled so hard they hurt. “There’s an easy fix if you don’t like my choice of words. One: go fuck yourself, and two: go fuck yourself _by_ yourself. Or three: don’t just say ‘I don’t know. Say something scary. You’re creative. Surprise me!’ when you want a specific death threat.”

“I-I would have,” Joe wheezed, “if I’d known your definition of scary was so…Scooby Doo.”

“Says the man in the Bane mask,” Kalashnikov groused, stilling his fingers in Moore’s hair.

“Hey,” Joe said after a moment. “Hey. Don’t do that. It _was_ everything I wanted.”

“Hmph. Aside from the last word?”

“Well…” Joe considered, but his lips betrayed him, pulling into a grin. “It had its charm,” he confessed. “You have your charm.”

“Yeah?” Kalashnikov leaned back in. “Give us a kiss, then.”

Joe’s lips were perpetually chapped—whose weren’t these days? And while Kalashnikov had to shift his lips slightly to avoid aggravating a particularly nasty sore near Moore’s pout, their kiss dragged on into a set of smaller, shorter kisses around each other’s face and finally down his neck.

“Hate to break this up,” Joe murmured after pulling his lips away from Kalashnikov’s collarbone, “but the sun’s rising.”

“Sure is,” Kalashnikov agreed with a kiss to his neck.

“If we don’t want a two-hour lecture on _units_ , we should go and placate Fat Boy.”

“Yup.” He kissed the same spot again, then one lower. Lower still.

“So…you’re going to need to let me up now.”

“Mh-hm.” Kalashnikov kissed along the ruin of Moore’s armor. “Sorry about this, by the way," he said, tapping the plastic, "But really, it’s your own fault for choosing style over substance—and questionable style at that.”

“Kalashnikov…” Joe moaned as Kalashnikov straddled his calves and began dismantling his belt.

“Pipe down. Unless you’d really like to forego that blowjob you’re always whining about me not giving you?”

Joe immediately stopped tugging. His eyes were wide again, but this time for a completely different reason. “You’re serious.”

“As a sniper,” Kalashnikov chuckled as he wriggled Joe’s trousers and linens down. “I figure, you took your punishment and submitted to justice like a good boy. And good boys should get sweeties. Besides, you didn’t come,” he said, nudging Joe’s half-hard cock with a bony knuckle. “Guess I really should use a loaded one next time, huh?”

“Fucking freak,” Joe moaned as Kalashnikov doubled over, leaned in, and swirled his tongue across the head of his dick.

“Mhh. Bang-bang.”

“Such a freak,” Joe whimpered, leaning back as Kalashnikov took him past his lips and into his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

The People Eater frowned as his limousine rumbled through the dunes. Where the hell were Moore and that damned overfueled, overindulgent toy he insisted on having? Even if he and Kalashnikov had stopped to test the steering as the imperators had said, they shouldn’t have taken this long. In the past fifty-eight minutes, they’d lost a good half hour of work without “the Immortan” and his overarmed lapdog there to oversee construction. 

“Absolute carelessness,” he told his driver. “They’ve no care or consideration for waste, the pair of them.”

Knowing Moore and Kalashnikov, they were probably just lagging behind to drag him out after them. He hoped that was all, at least. Now that Moore had a wife and a son—evil little bastard though he was—surely he’d cut things off with that trigger-happy deviant.

“But here’s what I don’t understand, Flak. If the Farmer is the Immortan’s lancer, why does he have his own place outside the Citadel? His own soldiers? And none of them War Boys?”

“Chh. Because a lancer’s a driver’s loyal servant, Alloy. He goes where his driver says, does what’s asked of him, and _doesn’t complain_ —unlike some people in this car. And the Immortan needed the Farmer to supply us with bullets.”

The People Eater bit back a scream. As if this tardiness weren’t insufferable enough, he’d had to listen to these two War Boys babble for the last half hour. They’d insisted on coming along in case the Immortan needed someone to “spit in his engine,” or some nauseating shite like that. And of course, the little dunces had been having some kind of guzzoline-addled existential discussion the whole damn way. 

“But that still don’t explain why they don’t ride into battle together all the time.”

“Ch, ain’t that just like a lancer to say too?” the one called Flak snorted. “The Immortan grabbed the sun and wrestled with the armies of Sauron for three days. Who knows why someone who can do all that does the things he does?”

“Yeah, I guess. But if we’re all supposed to want to be drivers, like the Immortan, why are some of us lancers? I mean, can’t drive without the pair, can you? So why—?”   
“See, Alloy, this is why you’ll never make driver!” Flak chided. “Or even a half-decent lancer. Too damn much curiosity. You’ve got to put that aside if you want to fang it, mate. Anyway, I can’t wait to see the back of you.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“Yeah, get me a real lancer like the Farmer,” he said on a dreamy sigh. “Y’know he once told me to stop staring at him if I wanted to keep my eyes in my fuku-damned head? Best day of my life too. Now that, mate, _that_ is a chrome guy.” 

“Hmph. If you like him so much, why don’t you ju—”

“Your ‘god’ is a half-impotent old fart who wanks to his own reflection,” the People Eater shouted, slamming his hands against the dashboard and pivoting—as best he could—to glare at them. “And his ‘lancer’ can’t get it up without a gun up his arsehole!” 

The War Boys stared at him in beady-eyed silence for approximately ten seconds before they broke down into peals of thigh-slapping laughter.

“Oh! Ohh, that’s a good one!”

“Testing our faith as always, People Eater!”

“Has to be the best trial yet.”

“And we passed it! Daddy will be so proud.”

“You’re right lucky that the Immortan gives you permission to say such things,” Flak said as Alloy continued to snicker. “Otherwise, we’d have to gut ya.”

“Now, now, Flak. Remember: who knows why gods do what they do? Without the People Eater’s challenges, some of us might get into Walhalla who have less than perfect faith.”

Flak screwed up his skeletal face in thought. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s a philosophical way of puttin’ it.”

“Mh, yeah.”

The People Eater threw his hands up and returned to staring straight ahead. Of course Moore had built him into his medicine show of a religion as its Satan on purpose. Of course he had. What better way to make sure no one paid him any bloody attention? He and that gun-happy scarecrow on his arm probably had a good laugh about it every day too. For a moment, he considered telling the War Boys about the time he’d actually walked in on their “god” rutting Kalashnikov as if he were a bitch in heat, but that would probably just encourage them to talk even more. Shaking his head, he looked back at the horizon.

“Gigahorse, dead ahead,” his driver announced as they rounded the corner of a dune.

“Yes, I can see that, you idiot,” the People Eater snapped as the monstrosity came into view. Two Cadillacs. The man had used two Cadillacs to make it and mounted them on tires taller than he was. Why they hadn’t seen it over the small dune was a beyond him.

“What the hell are they doing?” he growled, squinting ahead. “Telescope,” he snapped at one of his assistants, who scrambled to put it into his hands. The vehicle was just…sitting there as the sun came up, bathing its monstrous cabins in gold fire.

“Ohhh, shiny,” Alloy chirped from behind him.

The People Eater cursed under his breath. Moore would never have left his expensive plaything out in the middle of the Wasteland. So what was going on? He smiled as visions of Buzzards, Rock Riders, and other warlords’ men raced through his mind. Maybe they’d pulled them both out of the vehicle and dismembered them brutally. No, he wouldn’t be so lucky. The two were as mortal as anyone else, yet they had a particular skill for evading death.

His fantasizing was abruptly cut off when something fluffy and white-gold suddenly raised up and slammed against the driver-side window, leaving a small streak of red as it backed up and hit into the glass again. Of course, the Gigahorse didn’t rock with the motion, a testament both to its grandiose size and what were no doubt top-of-the-line shocks.

“What the hell?” The People Eater frowned. “Closer,” he told his driver as his pulse accelerated. If someone was murdering the two inside the cabin, he wanted the best view possible.

“Is that the Immortan’s head?” Alloy chirped from behind him.

“And what’s that—” Flak gasped. “Oh V8!”

The People Eater saw it too. The wriggle of a brown-clad arse before Kalashnikov sat up, licked his thin lips, and dove back down again.  
Oh for fuck’s sake. They weren’t—

“Shiny!” The exclamation from Alloy made him swivel in surprise. In the cab behind him, the two little arseholes were staring at the Gigahorse and making that damned V8 sign like they were witnessing the birth of the bloody Venus instead of two old men playing hide the rancid salami in the middle of the goddamned Wasteland.  
“Look at him, siphoning the Immortan.” Flak’s eyes would have had stars in them if they sparkled with any more tears. “What a lovely sight!”

“Witness, Farmer! Witness!” Alloy shouted, and Flak joined him.

“Closer,” the People Eater snapped at his driver. “Hurry up! Time is waste, and waste is unacceptable.”

“And shit’s all you talk,” Alloy murmured behind him, setting the two War Boys giggling before they started up their chant again.

The People Eater ignored them as he slapped his assistant in the stomach again. “Bullhorn,” he told him. If these two were going to screw around on his dollar, well, they were in for a big surprise. As he brought the device to his lips, he hoped the Bullet Farmer would be so startled he’d blow a hole in the damn monstrosity’s windshield—or maybe bite Moore’s syphilitic prick off. Either would serve the pair of them right.

“We have been waiting for sixty-seven minutes and 25.7 seconds to begin construction on the new north tower, and here you two sit licking each other’s bloody popsicles!”  
“What’s a popsicle?” Alloy whispered behind him.

“Dunno. Ch. Probably a new motorbike they’ve got in Gas Town. We’ll ask around.”

“Hhm.”

“In having to drag my rig out to find you, you have wasted twenty-five gallons of guzzoline and diverted three of my assistants from their tasks—wasting a grand total, sirs, of 269 minutes when we could all have been bloody doing something! _What the hell is wrong with you?_ ”

***

Inside the cabin, Kalashnikov looked up from Moore’s cock and sighed as the People Eater began his tirade.

“Well, shit,” he grumbled as he wiped the spit from his lips. “Didn’t think Fatty would actually waddle his way out here. But any chance to show off that ugly car, I suppose.” Sighing, he reached for the wheel and unbuckled Joe’s hands. “I don’t know what he’s better at. Reminding us all how we waste ‘assets’ or cockblocking. See, Joe? If you’d just let me bring along Sarah and Jane, I could take care of our not-so-little problem out there.” 

Joe was grinning at him now. That grin he always did when he was planning something fun.

“You…didn’t bring any of my weapons with us, did you?” Kalashnikov said carefully.

“Why don’t you climb into the back and see?” Joe asked, tilting his head to the right with a slight wince. Making a mental note to ask for a medic as soon as they reached Gas Town, Kalashnikov squirmed through the small, square opening between both cabins and smirked as a heavy hand slapped him across the arse.

“Now, now, none of that,” he chuckled. “If his royal nibs out there catches sight, it’ll only encourage him.” After all, the People Eater hadn’t stopped screaming at them through that bullhorn since he’d pulled up; why add fuel to the fire? “Anyway, what am I looking for?”

“The blanket in the back. Open it.”

Anticipation tingling all the way down his fingers to his stomach, Kalashnikov crawled toward the dusty gray army blanket and flipped it aside.

“Fuk-ushima,” he whispered at the sight of the three gleaming AK-47s beneath. “Where’d you find these lovelies?”

“Hmm, let’s just say I’ve been saving them for a special occasion,” Moore said with a chuckle as Kalashnikov picked one up and examined it. 

“I bet she fires like a dream,” he murmured. When Joe didn’t say anything, he looked over his shoulder to find him grinning through the gap again.

“Oh,” Kalashnikov murmured, shaking his head as a smile pulled across his face, “I do love you, Colonel.” 

Moore made a kissing sound and shot him a wink before reaching for his respirator and reassembling it. As he redonned the identity of the Immortan, Kalashnikov checked that the rifle was loaded and then eased up into a crouch. 

Outside the Gigahorse, the People Eater was still—still!—braying at them from the front of his limo, completely ignoring anything but the first cabin, where he no doubt assumed they were both listening to his rant like chastened schoolchildren. The two War Boys behind him were completely ignoring him too and calling out for the Immortan’s attention. Not a one of them, of course, was looking for a sniper.

Kalashnikov grinned as he took careful aim. The first three shots sagged the limo’s front left tire; two more and its mate joined it.

“ _Kalashnikov_ ,” the People Eater screamed through the megaphone, swirling to look up at him. “ _Do you know how much these tires—_ ”

“That’s a very interesting shade of red you’ve got there,” he called down. “Apoplexy looks good on you!”

“You son of a b—”

“Bullet Farmer!” one of the War Boys screamed, wresting the megaphone away from the People Eater. “Bullet Farmer!” he shouted into it. “Give me a lancer’s blessing!”

What the hell was he on about?

“He do—he doesn’t do those, Alloy,” the other one shouted. “There’s no such thing.”

“ _Please?_ ” the War Boy—Alloy—begged. “I want to be a better lancer! Just like you.” 

Kalashnikov usually didn’t get involved in this god-king bullshit Moore insisted on feeding his War Boys, especially when it involved some half-assed story about whatever it was he did in Moore’s equally bullshit pantheon. But the People Eater was screaming himself purple, and he’d just gotten three new AKs and had one of the most mind-bendingly hot fucks in weeks with someone he didn’t get nearly enough time to fuck anymore.

So what the hell?

“You’ll be a great lancer, Soldier,” he said, giving the kid a salute—a proper military one, too; none of this V8 crap. “Just make sure you spend a little quality time in your car with your driver, like I do.”

The kid looked like he was about to piss himself with joy as he—awkwardly—returned the salute using the wrong hand. “I will,” he cried. “Thank you!”

With that remark, Joe revved the engine and the Gigahorse pulled away.

“You can’t just leave me here,” the People Eater squawked after them.

Kalashnikov flipped him off before putting the AK-47 back with her sisters and crawling down into the first cabin. Hopefully the Boys would learn a second gesture today.

“My, my, my,” he crooned as he snuggled up against Joe’s side. “Hot sex, new lovelies, pissing off Fatty, and I think I just gave one of your War Boys some solid advice—and the sun’s not even up yet. But you still have a not-so-little problem, don’t you?” Kalashnikov frowned as Moore slapped his hand away when he reached for his still-exposed dick.   
“What? Pissed off that I spoke to one of your brats?”

“No,” Joe rumbled through the mask. “Pissed off because you’re not on my lap taking care of this the right way.”

“Hell no.” Kalashnikov said, crossing his arms. “I’m not letting you fuck me with that thing on.” He made a splatting sound with his tongue. “Instant boner death.”

“Humor me.”

“Or what? You’ll force yourself on me for real this time? Good luck doing that without wrecking your precious baby.”

Joe sighed. “You’re impossible. Do it and I’ll give you another gift.”

“More AKs?”

“Better.”

Kalashnikov snorted. “Not sure anything’s better than that.”

Joe shook his head. “As soon as we’re finished with this…distraction at Gas Town, you’re spending the day in bed with me.”

Kalashnikov feigned a yawn.

“And the new AKs. You like having one between us when I’m balls-deep inside you, don’t you?”

“Go on.”

“That’s it. You, me, aiming guns at each other. Passion. Romance…”

“Won’t your lady wife have something to say about this all?”

Joe shrugged. “Fuck her.” His words were flippant, but Kalashnikov detected a hint of bitterness in them.

He decided not to pursue it.

“Hmm…all right, then. But don’t make a habit of this.” Kalashnikov leaned down and made quick work of removing his boots, trousers, and underthings before straddling Moore’s lap and tucking his head into that long, graying hair. If he kept it here, Joe would be able to see around his shoulder, which would lessen their chances of crashing or tipping over.

Then again, given how well his revheads had put the damn thing together, maybe he shouldn’t worry so much.

“You came prepared,” Moore said as he slid a finger between Kalashnikov’s cheeks and into the wetness between them.

“Semper paratus, Colonel,” he said before kissing the hideous horse teeth and swiping his tongue across them. “And with a man like you, that should always be semper erectus too.” 

“Hm.” 

Kalashnikov gasped as Moore added a second digit and stretched him. They didn’t say anything else until he was firmly seated on Joe’s lap, arms looped around his waist, head buried against his neck.

“There’s one thing we haven’t tested yet,” Moore said, voice shaky as Kalashnikov lifted and lowered himself on his lap.

“Y-yeah?”

“How fast she can go.”

“Mhh,” Kalashnikov agreed, nibbling his earlobe. “Then fang it, Immortan.”

And chuckling, Moore did just that.


End file.
